


Do We Live (Just a Little)

by lyonet



Series: Do We Live [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Relationships, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Queenie's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 18:05:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8855623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyonet/pseuds/lyonet
Summary: The deal is simple: Jacob keeps his memories if Queenie helps interrogate Grindelwald. “President Picquery wants the Obscurus present as well,” the Auror says, standing in her kitchen and looking judgementally at the pastry Nifflers that Jacob left out to cool.
“His name is Credence,” Queenie says. “The Obscurus is Credence Barebone.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> So...I watched 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them'. And then I had feelings.

It was meant to be Queenie. That’s what their parents thought when the girls were young and Queenie was the gifted one, the one who couldn’t just _do_ magic, she _was_ magic. She was obviously destined for great things, for a career as an Auror, maybe one day for the presidency of the MACUSA. The livewire brilliance of Seraphina Picquery had blazed a trail for other women to follow and Queenie, a natural Legilimens, looked set to run in her footsteps.

Queenie heard her parents’ proud planning and her sister’s quiet jealousy, the brightening interest of family friends when they asked her to read their minds as a parlour trick, and she understood she was different. She just didn’t understand how anyone could live the other way. It must be so quiet, she thought. It must be so lonely.

*

In the ruined subway, with a sobbing boy at her side covered by her coat and the most powerful dark wizard in living memory mocking his captors as he’s led away, Queenie catches a glimpse of something she was not meant to see in the space between thoughts. The others left her here to soothe Credence while Jacob sneaked off to hide Newt’s suitcase and Newt and Tina answered President Picquery’s questions. It’s vital that they keep Credence out of sight, in case the Aurors get it into their heads to try and kill him again. Queenie didn’t mean to reach into Grindelwald’s mind; it was a moment of instinctive alarm when he looked at Newt and she thought that, bound as he was, he was going unleash a curse on the man who had unmasked him. He’s so angry that it’s like a whirlwind of sharp-edged debris in his head but there’s a flash of vindictive satisfaction amidst the wild calculations and Queenie reels a little as she takes in what that means.

She leans as far out of the shadows as she dares, staring urgently into the crowd of Aurors until she finally catches Tina’s eye and can beckon her over. “Percival Graves,” she whispers, when Tina is close enough to hear. The name makes Credence gasp, like he’s been slapped hard, and Queenie – seeing the slap for herself in his memory – wraps a firm arm around his shoulders while she keeps talking. “Tina, he’s alive. Grindelwald had to have him for the Polyjuice Potion. He was thinking we’d never find him, just now, but I think I know where he’s being kept.”

Tina covers her mouth. Queenie shakes her head at the surge of self-recriminations. “He got you off the team for a reason, Tina. I’ve been listening to the gossip, you know, he’s been working alone for weeks, he knew somebody would notice if he was around Graves’ team.”

Credence shifts under Queenie’s arm. His face is bone-white and tear-streaked but there’s a terrible hope blooming as he takes in her words. “That wasn’t him? That wasn’t Mr Graves.”

Queenie is hit by another wave of memories, incoherent with distress but painting a clear enough image. “Oh, honey, no,” she says. “Grindelwald used him to get to you. That’s not your fault.”

Tina turns towards the Aurors, then stops. She turns back. Queenie nods. “No time to argue,” she agrees. Wizards are impressed by the idea of a Legilimens but every time it’s really counted, she’s had to jump through all kinds of hoops to prove that she knows what she’s talking about, and a man’s life is on the line here. She doesn’t know what Grindelwald had to do to subdue the most powerful Auror in the MACUSA, but she’s guessing Graves is going to be in very bad shape. “You know where he lives, don’t you?” she asks Tina, who doesn’t answer out loud, too wrapped up in her own urgency. Before Queenie can say a word – or let go of Credence – the subway platform is gone and the three of them are in what must have once been a very nice apartment.

It isn’t nice any more. There’s a reek of dark magic like nothing Queenie’s known before and the wreckage tells her that the duel here was a savage one. Credence makes a choking noise and covers his face with his hands. Tina is looking around with her wand raised, its lit tip illuminating scorch marks torn through the wallpaper and a sea of splintered furniture. There’s blood on the floor, dried to a dark stain on the carpet.

“I should have – noticed,” Tina whispers. “I didn’t notice, it wasn’t him.”

“Nobody did,” Queenie says immediately, hearing everything else that Tina can’t articulate, the guilt clogging up her throat. “Grindelwald fooled Seraphina Picquery herself and she’s known him since Ilvermorny.”

Tina turns around and notices for the first time that Credence is there. They’ve lost Queenie’s coat in transit and Credence has let his hands drop from his face, a blank resolution settling over him. The broken pieces of chair around his feet begin to vibrate. Tina says, “Credence, no!” and Queenie sways, clutching at her head. It is like a magnifying glass has been held to her skull and she can feel _everyone_. The neighbours, upstairs and downstairs, recently Obliviated; the maid hurrying through the hallway, not sure why she’s always scared on this floor. And there’s somebody else, so faint she wouldn’t have heard him otherwise.

Credence makes a wordless, pained noise and the wall in front of them collapses. There is a ripple of broken magic; the wall was of Grindelwald’s making, concealing a tiny priest-hole where Percival Graves is tied to a chair, floating in midair in a haze of spells. Credence lunges forward, but his magic is a blunt instrument, unsuited to rescues. Tina brings the chair down, whimpering little prayers as she takes in the extent of the injuries. “Queenie,” she says, fumbling at the blood-stained collar for a pulse. “ _Queenie_.”

“He’s alive,” Queenie promises, coming around the other side to cut through the ropes binding Graves to the chair. Together they catch him before he can slide to the floor. He’s unconscious, which is probably for the best, because moving him is not going to be easy. Apparition is chancy with him in this state. Credence hovers, his hands clenching and unclenching, desperately wanting to do something to help but not knowing how.

“Fetch a mattress,” Queenie tells him, and he runs to obey. If they can keep Graves still, they should be able to move him all right. She looks to Tina, who is trying to perform healing magics, but there’s only so much you can do with a wand when it comes to broken bones. Queenie remembers Tina telling her once, so proud of her mentor, that Graves had a knack for healing spells. Grindelwald has a nasty sense of irony.

Credence returns, dragging the mattress with him. Tina levitates Graves’ unresponsive body into place and the sisters arrange themselves at either end, holding onto the mattress, Queenie holding onto Credence too. “The stairs under the musical hall posters,” Tina says and they Apparate together, startling Jacob, who is further down the tunnel with the suitcase and a lost look. He was worried about them; the beam of relief when he sees Queenie steadies her better than anything in the world and she can’t help beaming back, despite everything.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says. “We just rescued the Director of Magical Security.”

*

You had to be thinking of something specific, when Queenie was young, and she was clearest on things that were about her. She was good at making friends, always able to tell what they wanted to talk about, and then she’d bring them over to her sister in the hope that maybe Tina could do the next bit – the bit where you made them keep liking you – but it was harder than either of the sisters could manage most of the time. Tina was too intense and Queenie was too strange. It was okay. They could be friends as well as sisters.

By the time she went to school, Queenie had learned how to keep her skill small in other people’s perceptions, a fun game at parties and useful in the classroom. The only time she didn’t have to worry about that was when she was alone with Tina, who was too used to it to mind, and usually too focused on her own plans to worry about her sister’s.

Queenie’s favourite thing as she got a bit older was listening to the No-Majs. It was like reading one of their books, only better, because you didn’t know what would happen next and nobody could take the book away from you with a tut and a sigh of ‘Oh, Queenie, what do you want with that nonsense?’ No-Majs weren’t so different from wizards, really. And they thought such interesting things. On the Christmas holiday during Queenie’s first year at Ilvermorny – so much Christmas Queenie could have drowned in it, like it was everybody’s holiday or _should_ be – she went for a walk and sat in a park, where she listened to a grumpy artist who couldn’t paint the ducks right and a young mother wondering what colour her baby’s hair would be. She bought hot chestnuts for the newspaper boy on the corner because he couldn’t stop thinking about how good they smelled. Her parents always made sure she had a bit of No-Maj money in her pocket in case of emergencies – though her mother, when Queenie explained where it had gone, did not agree on Queenie’s definition of ‘emergency’.

“There’s nothing wrong with No-Majs,” she said patiently, though her thoughts were dubious about it, “but they just aren’t like us. There’s no spark to them. Don’t waste your time, baby girl. Maybe you’d better not go to the park any more.”

*

Once the mediwizards have hold of Percival Graves, he’s gone, nobody is allowed to see him. “They’re checking to make sure it’s really him,” Tina says wearily, coming home after another failed attempt at a visit and sinking into her seat at the kitchen table. It’s crowded; Newt’s here, detained in America for a string of briefings after his display of heroism in the subway tunnel, and Jacob is still in legal limbo as Queenie pulls on every loophole in the magical secrecy laws to keep his memories. If he ever forgot her – if she looked into his eyes and all she got was the friendly smile he gives everybody – she doesn’t know how she’d cope with that.

And of course, there’s Credence, who has undergone a general sort of adoption. After the rescue of Mr Graves, word leaked out that the Obscurus survived, but as nobody really wants to deal with all of the complications that he represents he’s been allowed to stay here. Tina answers his questions about the magical world whenever she’s home, always having to backtrack when it dawns on her all over again how little he knows. They both come away from those talks looking a bit shell-shocked.

Jacob feeds him. With nothing else to do, he’s been very busy baking, and he presses a sample of every new creation into Credence’s uncertain hands, often with a ruffle to his hair or a pat on his back. Newt, when not answering questions under Seraphina Picquery’s quelling gaze, guides Credence around the interior of the suitcase, doing his own teaching as he explains the story behind each of his creatures. He’s pleased to have such an appreciative listener. Credence is particularly taken with the Niffler, petting its soft quills wonderingly.

He’s trying so hard to please them all, but he doesn’t know how. Their kindness bewilders him. Queenie wakes in the night to his quiet crying and fixes two mugs of cocoa. “Chocolate helps with bad things,” she says, sitting on the floor beside him. “It’s a real medical fact.”

“I destroyed everything,” Credence whispers, the mug shaking between his hands. “Modesty…”

“She’s okay. Tina went to check on her in the orphanage, remember, she’s doing fine. It’s one of the good places. She asked to see you, isn’t that right?” The only answer she gets is Credence’s thick, tearful breaths and she guides his head onto her shoulder, stroking his hair. “What happened, it wasn’t your fault. Can you keep a secret, Credence?”

“Yes,” he says softly, like she’s entrusting him with the Niffler’s hoard.

“Okay, here it is,” she says. “We’re doing it wrong. Sure, we can’t let _all_ the No-Majs know what we can do. Pretty easy to see how bad it would be. But we’re so wrapped up in keeping ourselves quiet that we don’t notice when one of our own needs our help – and if you’re not one of our own, we’re not supposed to help at all. We could do a lot to make this world better, and we don’t do it.”

“Do we die,” Credence whispers, Grindelwald’s words sharp and clear in his his head, “just a little?”

“That’s where he’s wrong,” Queenie says. “It’s not the No-Majs doing this to us. We do it ourselves. We decided it wasn’t even worth trying, and then we blamed them.”

“He was right about my mother.” Credence curls in on himself. “I killed her. I – she was going to beat Modesty, and Modesty’s so little, she couldn’t…”

“We should have helped you.” Queenie kisses the top of his head without thinking about it, like he’s a child instead of a man not much younger than she is. His thoughts reel in incredulous pleasure. Nobody has ever done that to him before. Graves, he thinks, and remembers a large hand cupping his neck, but the memory is all hurt confusion now instead of the comfort it used to be.

There’s a little clink in the kitchen. Queenie looks up and sees Jacob at the stove in his borrowed pajamas, quietly pouring more cocoa, a couple of pastries put aside on a plate. “Hey,” he says, smiling when she levitates the crockery out of his hands. “Is this an exclusive midnight feast or can any old riff-raff join in?”

She pats the floor on her other side. He’s so warm, so contented to be where he is. He thinks she’s a wonder; Credence thinks she’s a saint. Between them, it’s enough to turn a girl’s head. She’s not the witch her sister is, swift and exact with Auror training, but Queenie thinks that right now she could cast a Patronus strong enough to take down Grindelwald himself.

*

At the end of her fifth year at Ilvermorny Queenie sat her parents down and told them she wasn’t going to be an Auror. “I can’t be around thoughts like that all the time,” she explained, willing them to understand, hearing that they didn’t. They had had a whole future planned out for her and were left stunned by the news that it would not come to pass. They both thought she was going to change her mind, later.

She did not.

Queenie liked her job – she heard all the best gossip doing her rounds with the tea-tray, and made sure good biscuits came to those who really needed them. She spent most of her time going around the offices, since the upstairs lot had their own arrangements, and only crossed paths with Percival Graves once, when he was in a great hurry on his way somewhere else. She noticed him because Tina was running in his wake, practically brimming over with excitement that he had picked her for the assignment. That sort of hero-worship worried Queenie enough that she brushed warily against Graves’ mind, to see what he was like.

Her conclusion was: all right. Graves was orderly and fierce and his thoughts moved very fast, jumping between associations for which Queenie didn’t have the context to fully understand. He didn’t have much kindness in him, but the sense of justice was strong enough to outweigh that and Queenie went back to work, feeling that Tina was safe enough at his side.

It’s good to know she wasn’t wrong. That Tina would have been safe, if she had been in that interrogation room with the real Percival Graves.

But she was not safe. And Queenie does not know what to do about that.

*

The deal is simple: Jacob keeps his memories if Queenie helps interrogate Grindelwald. “President Picquery wants the Obscurus present as well,” the Auror says, standing in her kitchen and looking judgementally at the pastry Nifflers that Jacob left out to cool.

“His name is Credence,” Queenie says. “The Obscurus is Credence Barebone.”

The Auror looks at her and inside his head is all the chaos left behind when the Obscurus swept through, the damage that everyone in Special Investigations have been working around the clock to repair. They are blaming it on a freak weather event and by and large the No-Maj media have run with that. Thanks to the Thunderbird rain (clever, clever Newt), they do not have to Obliviate half the city, but it’s not been easy.

“I’ll do it,” Queenie says. There’s not much else she can say, even if the thought of being in the same room as that wild dog of a brain makes her stomach turn.

Jacob and Newt took Credence into the suitcase while the interview was underway, so that he wouldn’t get upset if it went wrong. Jacob, whose memories are on the line, is trying to be philosophical and he finds that easier if he’s looking after somebody else. Queenie gets the strategy. At least she’s got good news for him now.

“There are going to be restrictions,” Tina says, getting down to fine print. “You won’t be allowed in magical spaces, you’ll be under surveillance for six months – officially, I bet you it’s going to be much longer. Maybe forever.”

Jacob holds Queenie’s hand under the table. “It’s okay with me. One minute I’m a nobody in the canning factory, next minute I’m here. I’d dance the tango on my hands, if that’s what it took to stay – and, you know, if I could dance the tango.”

Credence makes a strange noise that it takes them all a moment to realise is a laugh. Newt looks at him joyfully, as if a bandaged wing has just flared out in preparation for flight.

The day of the interrogation, Jacob kisses Queenie on the cheek like the gentleman that he is and she feels chocolate cake in her future. “Chocolate makes everything better,” she says, holding onto him tighter. She doesn’t want to let go.

Tina eases her away with a hand on her elbow. For once, Newt doesn’t have to come – Picquery has got all the answers she wants out of him, or at least all the answers she is going to get. Newt is much more evasive than most people would give him credit for. Queenie, Tina and Credence march into the MACUSA together, ignoring the whispers and curious looks that follow wherever they go. It’s easier for Credence to pretend he can’t hear them, Queenie knows, with her hand on his elbow, so she keeps it there until they reach the interrogation room.

It isn’t the same one where Grindelwald sentenced Tina and Newt to death. It looks the same.

Grindelwald himself is tied down and gagged for good measure, but his eyes shine with malice when he sees who is filing through the door. Seraphina Picquery is there, immaculate as ever, and a couple of Aurors who flank their captive with belated caution. There are seats arranged in a semi-circle and Picquery gestures for them to sit, so they do, though Credence is feeling claustrophobic and Tina is running guiltily over all her mistakes. Again. Queenie makes sure Credence is seated the furthest away from Picquery and doesn’t take her hand off his arm, a detail Picquery certainly notices.

“I appreciate your coming today,” she says courteously, in her melodic, resonant voice. “Miss Goldstein, if you would step forward please.”

Queenie squeezes Credence’s arm, gives Tina a reassuring nod and gets up. Grindelwald’s mousetrap eyes are fixed on her now. He is truly a brilliant wizard; if the bindings were not so powerful, cast by three different Aurors, he’d be out of that chair with one of their wands in his hand already, she knows it. And he knows she knows it. His thoughts are directed at her very specifically, so clear it’s like he’s talking, casually conversational.

_So you’re the one who rescued Percival Graves. Well, you and my Obscurus. That was a botch-up! See, I can acknowledge my mistakes._ That’s not really directed at her; Queenie gets the flash of a young man’s face, taut with hurt. It seems that Grindelwald leaves behind that reaction wherever he goes. _I thought he was a Squib,_ he continues. _But, no. Just so well-hidden. What a miracle. I see he’s latched onto you now, though. Do let me know if you get bored with him? He’s all stutters and sorries, honestly, I don’t know how Graves put up with him all that time._

“Are you ready, Miss Goldstein?” Picquery asks briskly. “Shall we begin?”

_Oh, let’s._

“I’m ready,” Queenie lies.

She is not. It is ugly, painful work, because Grindelwald is alert to her now and his mind is a maze of trick staircases, leaving her groping for truth amidst a castle of lies. He tells her, in great detail, what he did to Graves, supplying her with pictures. _See how helpful I am?_ he says cheerfully into her head, while she tries not to retch.

She doesn’t get very much. What useful scraps she gleans are lifted out of her head and stored in little vials, to be picked over later in a Pensieve. There’s a symbol that he didn’t mean to show her and a couple of faces that Picquery’s steady questioning brings to the surface of his thoughts. It’s not enough. Queenie is about to ask for a break when the door behind her opens abruptly and the shock that travels around the room tells her who it is before his thoughts do.

Mr Graves does not look well. Under the circumstances, however, his recovery is impressive; he is upright and there is no visible hitch in his stride as he stalks towards the bound wizard. One moment his hand is empty, the next his wand is raised, and Tina makes a startled protest that Queenie quiets with a little shake of her head. She tries to block out the maelstrom of Credence’s reaction and focuses on Grindelwald.

The shock of seeing his erstwhile prisoner is brief but telling. Queenie catches a train of thought that leads back to – what is that? Grindelwald wrenches his thoughts away but Queenie’s got it. He had a second hiding place.

Graves levels his wand at Grindelwald’s forehead. Grindelwald struggles, wanting to get free, wanting badly to fight and to win again, because Graves was a challenge and Grindelwald only likes those when he wins them.

“Don’t worry,” Graves says witheringly. “I don’t plan on performing the Cruciatus Curse on a man bound to a chair. Whatever the temptation.”

He does something else. Queenie doesn’t know the spell but Picquery does, breath hissing between her teeth as Grindelwald slumps against the ropes. The guards on his mind are suddenly wavering; Queenie seizes the chance to grab what else she can.

“You look rather unwell,” Picquery remarks, over her head, to Graves. “You should take the rest of the day off.”

“No time,” Graves says. “The bastard did none of my paperwork.”

“At least you picked up a few useful spells from him,” Picquery replies, looking at Grindelwald’s slack form. His hands twitch with resistance behind his back. “Though if you ever use that one without my express permission, I will be very unhappy about it.”

“I promise to only use it on dark wizards who have held me prisoner in my own apartment, Madam President.”

Grindelwald’s thoughts are too fragmented now to make any sense. He’s thinking about the sad young man again, the one with the long hair and glasses. He’s angry with him. He misses him. It’s an uncomfortable roil that Queenie steps well back from, rubbing her temples. “Well done, Miss Goldstein,” Picquery says, satisfied. “I’ll have the memories analysed now. Meet me in my office in an hour, Graves, but get yourself a cup of coffee first.”

She departs, the two Aurors floating Grindelwald between them as they follow. Graves remains behind. He may not be able to read minds but it doesn’t take a Legilimens to notice when somebody’s eyes are boring a hole in the back of your head. He turns around and meets Credence’s eye. That’s too much for him, most of the time, almost as overwhelming as touch – but Credence keeps staring like he just can’t help himself and something changes under the impassionate mask that is Graves’ face. He walks slowly towards the seats, not looking away from Credence, only glancing aside at the last minute.

“Good to see you alive, Goldstein,” he says, in his blunt, precise way. “I understand someone looking very much like myself gave an order for your execution the other day.”

Tina is very close to tears. She is so relieved to have him back, so relieved to know he didn’t betray her trust after all. “You can thank Mr Scamander for its failing, sir.”

“I will, when I can get hold of him. President Picquery seems reluctant to allow him back into the MACUSA, after yesterday’s incident with the Bowtruckle. Still, you’ve all done the nation a service. And I’d be dead without the three of you, of course.” Graves nods an acknowledgement at Queenie and then his eyes return to Credence, who shudders minutely at being under that thoughtful regard again.

“Credence,” Graves says, eliciting another tiny shiver. “May I have a word with you?”

Tina shifts doubtfully, about to speak against the idea – Credence is doing better, yes, but last time an unkind word came from that mouth it nearly destroyed him and that is not something to easily get over, if ever it can be got over at all. Queenie has more confidence. Graves may not be kind as a general rule, but she has seen nothing in his thoughts to invalidate that first assessment: the people she cares about are safe with him.

“It’s okay,” she says very quietly to Tina, when Credence has left his chair. “He needs this.”

Graves leads Credence out of the room and sits him on a bench in the hallway, which is quiet enough for a private conversation. He rests a hand briefly on the slim shoulder and Credence stares intently at his shoes, not trusting himself. When Graves sits beside him, he risks a quick sideways look and the swoop of familiarity makes him clutch at his knees, for fear he’ll lose control again.

“Are you all right, Credence?” Graves asks, his voice low.

Credence nods jerkily. “Everyone has been very good to me.”

Tina plucks at Queenie’s sleeve. “What’s happening? I know you’re listening.”

“Explanations, apologies,” Queenie murmurs. “He knew that Grindelwald was getting at Credence, the awful man told him all about it, but he didn’t know why. He thought it was just spite…oh. Don’t say that, honey, it’s not true. You didn’t deserve that…Mr Graves, if that’s the best you can do, just send him back in here, why don’t you?”

Tina crosses her arms, exasperated. “Queenie. What are they _saying_?”

“A lot of nonsense,” Queenie says, frustrated. “That won’t help, you big fool, don’t bring up…oh, that’s sad. He did care, he’s just so bad at showing it.”

Credence is hunched in on himself, a miserable young crow with his dreadful haircut and ill-fitting hand-me-downs. He holds himself so stiffly and Queenie aches to go over, lead him away from what can only be a painful conversation. But Graves is trying – she knows he’s trying, bent towards Credence with his voice pitched low. Even after everything, Credence is comforted.

“You’ll have a place here,” Graves says firmly. “You’re different, but that’s not a bad thing.”

“I hurt people,” Credence says to his knees. “I killed Ma, I killed the newspaper man – ”

“It won’t happen again.” Graves sounds sure. “I’m going to help you. We’re all going to help.”

Credence’s head snaps up; there’s a taut moment when Queenie thinks he’s going to bolt but instead he crumples sideways into Graves’ arms. The Percival Graves from Tina’s memories has never had much patience for outbursts of any kind and he looks down now at the distraught young man crying against his waistcoat with concerned perplexity. He eventually settles a hand between the sharp shoulderblades.

“That’s better,” Queenie says, with satisfaction. “Same face, different man.”

“What just happened?” Tina demands.

“A start,” Queenie says. “It’s okay, we can leave them to it now. Mr Graves can get him home later. They have more to talk about and it’s rude to eavesdrop for too long.”

“ _Some_ people would say it’s rude to eavesdrop at all.”

“How can I look after anyone if I don’t know what’s going on?” Queenie asks reasonably. “Let’s get out of this nasty place. Last time we left Jacob alone with Newt, he got into all sorts of trouble.”

They smile and murmur quick goodbyes as they walk past Graves and Credence in the hallway. Credence isn’t crying any more but Graves has left the hand on his back and that, Queenie could tell him, was the right decision to make. Credence needs reminding that touch is not something you ration.

“What are you going to do?” Tina asks quietly. She’s thinking about Jacob, and what being a MACUSA exemption is going to mean for his life. Not in one world or the other – it won’t be easy. But really it’s Queenie she’s worried about, because she has some idea what the answer to her own question is going to be.

“I’m going home,” Queenie says.

“And after that?” Tina asks.

Queenie considers. She has plans but they aren’t clear enough to share yet. She’s good at cooking, Jacob’s good at baking, they both love people and food and making the world happier one square meal at a time, so…between them they could figure out a way to get the sums in order and open up that bakery. Jacob might not be allowed into magical spaces but that doesn’t mean Queenie can’t make him one that’s their own. He’s been thinking along the same lines, only with more recipes. She’ll talk to him about it properly tonight.

“We’re going to eat cake,” Queenie decides. “And then we’re going to start changing things around here."

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been [ translated into German](http://www.fanfiktion.de/s/58879efc000351b81ebc2f47/1/Do-We-Live-Just-a-Little-) by RenKai.


End file.
